by R. J. Jagger
Afterwards, Rave told Pepper, “That’s the sound I’ve always had in my head.”
He agreed.
“I’m sitting here listening and it’s like I’m watching the birth of a whole new sound,” he said. “I still can’t believe it. I mean, it’s rough, but—I don’t know—maybe that’s why it’s so good.”
“We need to bring them to Vegas,” Rave said.
Pepper nodded.
“Let’s see how the gig goes tonight and how the crowd reacts,” he said. “If things go the way I think they will, we’ll talk to them afterwards.”
Yeah.
Oh, yeah.
Then she got serious and looked at Pepper.
“I really am going to make it, aren’t I?”
He hugged her.
“Three months from now, radios across the country will be burning up with your songs. The world better get ready, because here comes Rave Lafelle. Just don’t dump me when you get a call from the big boys.”
She squeezed his hand.
“Never in a million years,” she said. “In fact, write up something for me to sign.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Day Five—April 16
Saturday Evening
______________
IT WAS ALMOST FIVE O’CLOCK when Teffinger’s phone rang and the voice of Dr. Leigh Sandt came through. “I’m still looking for more billboard connections,” she said, “but I came across something I thought you’d want to know about right away.”
Teffinger stood up.
“Go ahead,” he said.
“This happened in May of last year. It turns out that there was a female radio DJ in Chicago by the name of Kennedy Pinehurst,” she said. “She had a morning talk show and her face was on a lot of windy city billboards. One day she vanished. They found her two weeks later in an old abandoned warehouse on the edge of the city. She was hanging upside down from her ankles, totally naked, with her wrists tethered to the floor, in sort of an upside down spread-eagle position. Her throat was slit, deep, with something sharp like a razorblade or carpet cutter. It turned out that she had been dead for about a week, meaning she was killed about one week after she disappeared.”
Teffinger pictured Jena Vellone in that position.
With blood oozing out of her neck, dripping down her face, and making a bigger and bigger puddle beneath her.
He caught his breath.
And forced himself to concentrate.
“Was there any writing on the billboards?”
“Negative,” Leigh said.
Teffinger didn’t care.
There were too many similarities to ignore.
“I assume they never caught the guy,” he said.
“You assume right.”
“Any suspects?”
“No,” she said. “I spoke briefly with the detective in charge, a man by the name of Thomas Stone. I told him that you’d probably give him a call. You got a pencil handy?”
He did.
He did indeed.
TEFFINGER WAS ZIGZAGGING to I-25 six minutes later when Geneva called and wanted to know if he had done any follow-up on her hate mail. He told her about the Chicago case and said, “I’m on my way to the airport right now.”
“I’m coming with you,” she said.
He almost said no but then said, “The plane leaves in two hours.”
“Did you get tickets?”
“Didn’t have time,” he said. “I’m just hoping to get lucky. If it’s filled, I’m just going to wait for the next one.”
“What airline?”
“United.”
“I’ll meet you at their ticket counter.”
“If you’re there, you’re there,” he said. “But I can’t be waiting around.”
“I’ll be there.”
Teffinger hung up and then realized that he had forgotten to tell Leigh thanks.
So he called and told her.
TWO HOURS LATER, he was in a 727, seat 29C, putting his armrests into a death grip as the plane taxied down the runway at an ever increasing speed.
Geneva looked at him and said, “You should see your face.”
He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing.
“This thing’s too heavy to fly,” he said.
She chuckled.
“You’re such a baby sometimes,” she said.
Suddenly the aircraft lifted.
Teffinger waited for the inevitable crash.
But it didn’t happen.
Not in one second.
Or five.
Or ten.
His grip should have gotten lighter; but he only squeezed tighter.
“Do you know who invented the airplane?” he asked.
“The Wright brothers—”
“Wrong,” he said. “The same people who invented the elevator.”
She laughed.
“The world’s in a big conspiracy to mess with you,” she said.
“Exactly.”
THE PLANE LANDED WITHOUT CRASHING. But then they found out that a convention had just about sucked up every room in the city. They finally found one room—a last minute cancellation with a king-sized bed—at the Swissotel on Wacker Drive, and decided to take it. It was almost eleven by the time they got checked in and unpacked. Teffinger should have been exhausted, but caffeine still grated on his nerves and he was anxious about what he would or wouldn’t learn tomorrow.
So when Geneva asked if he wanted to go out somewhere and get a drink, he said, “You’re reading my mind.”
She chuckled and said, “It’s small print, just for your information.”
“Not funny.”
“A little funny,” she said.
“Okay, a little,” he admitted.
THEY ASKED A CABBIE WHERE THE ACTION WAS. He dropped them off on Oak Street, where they had a pick. They wandered into a country-western bar with a foot-stomping band and a let’s-get-drunk atmosphere.
After a couple of drinks they headed to the dance floor to see if they could line dance.
They could.
Then the band suddenly slowed it up. Teffinger turned to head back to the bar but Geneva put her arms around his neck and said, “I’m scared, Nick. I need you to hold me.”
He thought of London.
And said, “That’s probably not a good idea.”
But Geneva wouldn’t let go.
He felt her tremble.
And realized she was on the verge of sobbing.
So he slow danced with her.
He let her hold him.
And rest her head on his chest.
And feel protected.
Afterwards she squeezed his hand, looked at him somewhat embarrassed, and said, “Thank you for that.”
“It’s the least I can do,” he said. “And that’s what I always do.”
She groaned.
“Bad, even for you.”
“Actually not bad, for me.”
They took a cab to the hotel, curled up on separate sides of the bed and closed their eyes.
“No spooning,” she said.
He chuckled and said, “You too.”
Then they went to sleep.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Day Five—April 16
Saturday Afternoon
______________
LAUREN LONG’S BODYGUARDS headed west on the 6th Avenue freeway towards the mountains. The driver watched the road. The other one watched Tripp, who sat in the back, docile, not as quick as a trigger finger.
No one talked.
Tripp knew they were taking him somewhere to jack him up, but didn’t know how bad it would be. As he saw it, there were two options. He could let them beat him, then check out of the hotel, return the rentals, fly out of Denver, return under one of his aliases tomorrow, and try to stay off their radar screen while he concentrated on Rave Lafelle. Or he could do something a little more in keeping with his basic nature.
They passed Golden.
Then headed no
rth on Highway 93, parallel to the foothills.
Two miles later they headed west down a deserted gravel road.
That road ended at a trailhead near the base of a mountain.
No cars were there.
Or people.
A gunshot from there wouldn’t be heard anywhere else in the world.
Tripp untied the shoelace of his right shoe.
THEY PULLED TO A STOP. The driver killed the engine, opened the door and stepped out. He looked around, scouting for witnesses. Then he opened Tripp’s door and said, “Let’s get this over with.”
By the time Tripp climbed out, the other bodyguard—the one with the gun—had come over to that side of the car.
“How bad is this going to be?” Tripp asked.
“That depends on you.”
Tripp nodded.
“I won’t resist,” he said.
“That’s smart.”
Tripp bent down to tie his shoe. At first, one of the men started to say something, but broke off when he saw what Tripp was doing. As Tripp stood up, he grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it at the man with the gun.
Two minutes later, Tripp was breathing hard and deep.
Exhausted.
So weak that he bent forward with his hands on his knees to steady himself.
The bodyguards laid on the ground.
Both of them.
Bloody.
Unmoving.
Dead.
Tripp walked over to the Lincoln, sat down in the dirt and leaned against the back wheel. He found a rock by his hand, picked it up and threw it at the closest body. The man’s eyes were open and the rock hit him directly in the right eye and bounced off.
The eye moved but didn’t close.
“Feel good?” Tripp muttered.
HE FOUND A BLANKET IN THE TRUNK of the Lincoln and spread it out on the driver’s seat to prevent any migration of his blood or hair into the interior.
He grabbed the cell phones.
And guns.
Then cranked over the engine and got the hell out of there.
No cars came down the road as he left.
Overhead, the sky was blue.
Very nice.
A couple of magpies flapped across the open space.
He turned on the radio, flicked the stations and stopped when he got to Beyonce’s “Crazy in Love.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Day Five—April 16
Saturday Night
______________
AT THE OLD ORLEANS on Saturday night, Rave resisted the urge to roll smokes in the dressing room during breaks. Instead, she concentrated on not screwing up on stage. Of course, the inevitable mistakes came—she stayed with the main chorus while Friday’s Child went into the bridge—things like that. But the crowd didn’t care because there were too many moments when the sound wasn’t just good, it was dead on.
Crazy dead on.
Magical, almost.
Something was being born.
Everyone in the club could not only feel it, but felt lucky to have accidentally stumbled in on the very night when it was happening. Including Tim Pepper, who sat at the bar giving Rave big grins and thumbs up, and buying drinks for London as if they were gay soul mates.
Rave wished Parker could be here to witness it.
But he was outside.
Somewhere in the shadows.
Standing guard; watching for slayers; poised to run inside and save her if the need arose.
Her hero.
She’d reward him well later, when they were alone.
Then, halfway through the night, something happened.
She didn’t want this to ever end.
And suddenly had a desire to live forever.
To be immortal.
WHEN THE GIG ENDED, she was too terrified to go home. She now understood the slayers better. Their viciousness and drive had become clearer.
More real.
More deadly.
More immediate.
Until now, she had viewed the whole situation as something vague and distant, as if the people who got killed had somehow inexplicably done something to justify it, something that Rave hadn’t done. But now she realized she had been lying to herself. Just being a bloodline descendent was enough to bring on everything that was headed her way. Being good, or naive, or unthreatening didn’t matter.
She called Parker from the dressing room after the last song.
They hooked up and he drove.
London came with them.
They zigzagged north through the city and ended up pulling into the parking lot of a low budget hotel off I-76, somewhere in Brighton. Parker killed the engine and they watched for vehicles that may have followed.
None appeared.
LONDON DIDN’T WANT TO BE A BOTHER and tried to talk them into letting her take her own room, but Parker said they shouldn’t split forces. So they ended up in a single room with two double beds.
Rave rolled a joint.
And everything softened.
Then something unexpected happened.
Parker looked at London and asked, “Do you think she’s ready?”
She shrugged.
“If she isn’t by now—”
Parker laid down on his back on the bed and then pricked the inside of his lower arm with something.
Blood came.
Not a lot.
Just a few drops at a time.
He looked directly into Rave’s eyes.
“Go ahead,” he said.
She knew what he meant.
She also knew that if she did it, then this would be a turning point in her life—a turning point that would not only bring her closer to Parker, but would bring her further into the strange world in which he lived.
She didn’t care about his world.
She wanted him too much to care about it.
She kneeled at the side of the bed.
Then put her mouth to his arm.
Like he wanted.
And maybe like she wanted.
And sucked his blood.
She thought it would taste terrible but it was actually sweet. If she didn’t know what it was, she would think it was some kind of liquid candy. Parker ran his fingers through her hair. Then London’s face appeared next to hers. And she moved over while London sucked.
They took turns.
For some time.
Then London took her turn on the bed.
While Rave and Parker tasted her blood.
THEN RAVE SAID, “MY TURN.” She laid down on her back in the middle of the bed and held her arms out to her sides.
“Are you sure?” Parker asked.
She nodded.
“Positive,” she said. “Do it.”
Chapter Sixty
Day Six—April 17
Sunday Morning
______________
IN SPITE OF THE LATE HOURS on Oak Street last night, Teffinger got up before dawn Sunday morning, took the stairwell to street level, and pushed through the revolving doors of the hotel into the Chicago nightscape. A stiff lake breeze blew trash and paper down the street. He jogged in the same direction, not in the mood to deal with wind in his face quite yet.
The city hardly moved.
It was dead.
Teffinger hugged the river and the bridges as much as he could and used his artist’s eye to study the way the lights bounced off the water.
He needed to set up an easel again.
And smell turpentine.
It had been too long.
So long in fact that he’d end up painting two or three duds before he got his eye back to where it needed to be to crank out something commercial. Maybe someday, if his life ever slowed down, he’d find time to really get into it. That’s the only way he’d ever find out what his boundaries were.
London didn’t know yet that he painted.
What he needed to do was take her down to the gallery in Cherry Creek, nonchalantly point to one of his paintings on t
he wall as if he’d never seen it before, and ask what she thought of it.
CHICAGO DETECTIVE THOMAS STONE turned out to be a small wiry man with a receding hairline, a big moustache and darting nervous eyes that never met Teffinger’s for more than a second at a time. He didn’t put on an attitude about coming into work on a Sunday morning, which meant that he hunted when the hunt was there. For that reason alone, Teffinger liked him.
Plus, the man had coffee and donuts waiting when Teffinger and Geneva showed up at the appointed hour, 8:00 a.m.
“So, how many billboards would you say had the picture of Kennedy Pinehurst on them before she disappeared?” Teffinger asked.
The man shrugged.
“That never became an issue,” he said. “Definitely some, though. She was a big deal around these parts.”
“How about her hate mail?” Teffinger asked. “Did you pull that?”
Stone nodded.
“That was one of our theories,” he said. “A wacky listener.”
“What I’d like to do is have Geneva go through them and see if any of them are similar to the ones she received,” Teffinger said. Stone paused—no doubt because Geneva was a civilian. “She’ll keep everything confidential.”
“I will,” Geneva said.
“And your theory is—what?”
“That my missing person—Jena Vellone—may have been taken not because someone wanted her so much, but more as a method of hurting Geneva, who is her sister. Did I mention that?”
No.
He hadn’t.
“Tell you what I’m going to do,” Stone said. “I’m going to leave you two in the room with the file and close the door. We can’t have a civilian looking at it. But if she does, how would I know?”
Teffinger nodded.
“Thanks.”
TEFFINGER AND GENEVA spent hours, and pots of coffee, going through every piece of paper in the Kennedy Pinehurst investigation file.
Stone had done everything a good detective should.
The file was thorough and exhaustive.
A few things emerged.
The victim—Kennedy Pinehurst—had a morning talk show similar in format, subject, audience and tone to Geneva’s. Also, both women were single, clubbers, and a little on the wild side.
